


Epoxied

by btwrites_ow



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst, Drama, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Explicit Language, Love Triangles, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, aka the only thing i write, super niche shit
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-20
Updated: 2019-01-14
Packaged: 2019-05-09 12:17:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14715884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/btwrites_ow/pseuds/btwrites_ow
Summary: How tumultuous love is, especially when it's meant to be with the most wanted thief in the world (whom you've never met). How does Jesse deal with it? Here's a hint: He doesn't.





	1. More Than Words and Guns

**Author's Note:**

> your boy bt is back at it again with another niche high boom fic, this time featuring mcgenji! this one's gonna be a little more angsty, lads, not gonna lie -- full of love triangles and drama, but i hope you all will like it anyways. remember, I Appreciate You, and i'll see you in the next chapter!

Gentle fingers drew through his hair, meditative and calming in the soft evening sun. He wished they could stay there forever, just him and Genji, but that night, they were on a mission. Antonio Bartalotti -- and Talon as a whole -- wouldn't wait for romance.

That didn't stop Jesse from wishing.

"Ya nervous?" he asked, not turning to the cyborg behind him.

Genji hardly hesitated. "Of course not. This job...it is simple." He tugged out a small tangle in McCree's hair. "It will be over quickly."

Jesse nodded, staring into the river. Omnic gondoliers silently propelled cuddling couples along the current, reminding Jesse of something he would never have.

Genji must have seen the gondolas, too, as he pressed his metal cheek against Jesse's back. "It is best to think of other things. We aren't even sure of our fate together."

McCree smirked. It was just like Genji to make some kind of pessimistic remark, to be negative where Jesse was positive. To others, it would get tiring -- but to Jesse, it simply meant they balanced each other out. They were meant to be together; he could  _feel_  it, deep in his soul, even if his vacant wrist disagreed.

"They'll come around. Y'know, I once heard of a couple who had to wait 30 years for their soulmate signatures to appear. If it's gonna take us that long...well, you better be in it for the long-haul."

Genji stayed quiet for a few moments. Then, he murmured, "That is extremely rare. Most people...theirs appear the moment they touch. It is uncommon for them to appear even a day afterward. Let alone three years..."

Jesse snorted. "Have a little faith, fireball."

Genji said nothing more. Obviously, the topic had overstayed its welcome. Jesse was content to let it go, allowing himself to watch the gondolas rock their amorous cargo, stars pricking the twilit sky above.

 

* * *

 

The harsh rattle of an engine broke the still outback air, drawing Jesse out of his evening doze. For a split second, he was confused where he was -- one moment, he was by the Grand Canal with the man he loved; next, he was in an arid wasteland, surrounded by shrubbery and bugs. He checked the time. Nearly 7 in the evening.

He peeked under the brush, watching as a cloud of ruddy dust blotted out the sky. Blinking, he tried to see who was riding off into the sunset.

 _Damn._  He was a moment too late. The cloud was too large, the bike was too fast, and he had no clue which junker -- if either of them -- was left behind.

_Only one way to find out._

He picked himself up off the ground, tinted orange from the dust. Quietly, he slipped Peacekeeper from its holster, ready to shoot whenever -- and whoever -- he had to.

As he cautiously approached the trailer, settled charmingly in its nest of broken bottles and scrap metal, he had to think how easy it would be to simply kill Junkrat and Roadhog. The job would've already been done, if it was possible; Jesse had been sitting in wait for nearly five days, hoping the two would separate.

Now, he might've gotten what he wanted.

 _Still think they deserve a bullet between the eyes,_  he thought, slowly slinking up to the trailer,  _but I'm not the one_ _offerin_ _' the bounty._

Jesse crept up to the door, pushing it open with his unoccupied hand. In his other, he held Peacekeeper upright by his head, bracing himself for whatever lay inside.

He bit his lip. He knew Junkrat had a thing for steel traps; hopefully, one wouldn't be waiting for him.

He pushed the door open further.

"Get outta here, ya fuckin' dero! What're ya doin' here? Sod off!"

Jesse stumbled back, holding his revolver out in front of him. The junker unraveled from the darkness, a wild-eyed creature of the night. And the initial impression? He was taller than the blurry pictures taken of him let off.

He held his grenade launcher tight, aimed at McCree with a grin nearly as diabolical as its owner's. "Ohh, you're no sad tramp, are ya?" he asked, taking notice of the cowboy's revolver. "You a bounty hunter? Aw, if only Hog was here! He'd've loved ya!" He gave a giddy snicker, making a sudden, if rather disturbing transformation from rabid animal into giggling schoolboy.

Jesse grimaced.  _I_ _guess_ _this's_ _as good as it'll get,_  he thought.  _Might as well take this one in while I got the chance._

His mind worked faster than he could track. He heard the peg leg tapping, he glanced down at it, he had an idea that would work to take out the deranged junker with minimal damage. He glanced back up -- and kicked Junkrat right in the peg. He fell forward with a yip.

Quick as a whip, Jesse pulled out the handcuffs he'd "borrowed" recently, dropping to his knees and straddling the filthy criminal with a disgusted scowl. Just as he was tugging his arms behind his back, struggling with the writhing and yowling that would put a feral cat to shame, he noticed something black scribble across the junker's remaining organic wrist. It was almost too quick to catch, but, in the recesses of his mind, Jesse recognized it.

His jaw tightened. He twisted Junkrat's arm so it was facing toward him, feeling sick to his stomach.

Jesse's hastened signature had burrowed into the fair skin, a sloppy  _J. McCree_  that spanned the width of the younger man's wrist.

McCree sucked in a breath, taking his hands off the junker as though he was poisonous. He looked down. On his own wrist, the one opposite of Junkrat's, a large, proud signature was plainly visible, in blocky letters written by a fast hand. A smiley face stood beside the name, eyes marked with X's and a grin that settled like lead in Jesse's gut.

JAMISON FAWKES.

Abruptly, he stood and backed away from the man on the ground. Despite the hot Australian sun scorching on the horizon, he felt his entire body go cold, dread gripping him with icy talons.

A slow thought lurched into his head.  _The reason why Genji's name's never appeared_ _ _...__

 _ _...is__   _because it was never_ _s'posed_ _to be him._

"What the fuck is your problem, cowpoke?" Junkrat snarled, forcing Jesse out of his shock with a sharp poke to his chest. Dirt smeared his chest and face; light scrapes marked his skin. "Ya think I'm just gonna sit back 'n' let some blow-in act big 'n' bad on me property? Who do you think you are?"

Jesse stayed silent, staring up in shock at the other man. He was nothing like Genji -- his angles were sharp, his skin was freckled and dirty, he was lanky and twisted and just looked  _wrong_. There had to be a mistake. It was impossible...

"Well? What's your deal?" he shouted, hardly two inches away from Jesse's face.

McCree gritted his his teeth. He grabbed Junkrat's arm, shoving it up into his face to show him exactly what his "deal" was.

Junkrat stared at it for a good ten seconds. Then, his fiery eyes slid back to Jesse. "That's you?"

McCree threw the criminal's arm down. "Yeah, that's me! It wasn't s'posed to be this way!" He turned away, shaking his head and rubbing his face in hopes of waking himself up. "It can't be you! You're -- you're not --"

"Wait, so lemme get this straight," the bomber interrupted. "You were gonna get me for me bounty, right? And then ya touched me...and... _you're_  my soulmate?" He sounded surprised. "So that means...you can't take me in! Ha! Eat  _that_!" He pointed into Jesse's face, giggling and bouncing like mad.

McCree glared at him for a few moments. What kind of cruel cosmic being thought it would be funny to match him up with this...loon? This annoying, dirty, unstable, irradiated outback-thumper that cackled and danced and got off to blowing things up?

He thought of Genji. Had he found his soulmate yet? Had he found happiness?

If so, why the hell couldn't it have been with Jesse?

It wasn't fair. It truly wasn't.

He plopped Peacekeeper back into its holster, defeated once and for all. He had nothing he wanted to say to the maniac mocking him; instead, he pulled his hat lower and started for his outpost, listening as uneven footsteps followed close behind.

"And you thought you could get the better of ol' Jamison Fawkes!" Junkrat crowed, that slimy grin apparent in his voice. "Even the cosmos are on my side, cobber! Better think twice before ya try 'n' bail me up again!" He cackled, but the raucous sound hardly reached McCree. The only thing he thought of was the ground underneath him.

He slid past the scrub that surrounded his camp, his makeshift home buffeting in the breeze. The tent had been white a few days ago, but the ever-present dust had turned it orangish-yellow. Jesse began gathering his things, putting them into bags that were easy to carry and easy to conceal. He had no reason to stay any longer.

He knew Junkrat was still there. He had followed him all the way to his camp. When Jesse turned back around, the junker stood nearby, obviously perplexed, but still clinging to his prideful "victory." He smiled. "You better go tell your friends not to come after me, either. They won't get so lucky!"

Jesse scowled, tossing his things on the ground. "You thick-headed son of a bitch," he spat, "don't you got any idea what this means for me? For us?"

Junkrat blinked. Then said, "Well, yeah, o'course! My mum told me about it back when -- ohhhh." He looked down, realization finally dawning on him.

Jesse smirked. He hoped it burnt Junkrat just as bad as it burnt him.

But the junker just smiled -- this time, it was affectionate, genuine. "You're mean as cat piss, but I think we could get along."

Jesse's own smile fell.

Junkrat started to approach, pushing through the brush. Jesse pointed angrily at him. "You stay away. I don't want nothin' to do with you."

"You ain't even givin' me a chance!" the taller man protested, taking a step closer.

"Don't need to."

"That ain't what these signatures say!"

"You think I give a shit about some stupid signatures?" Jesse exclaimed, reaching his boiling point. "You think I give a shit about  _you_?"

Junkrat scowled, lifting his hands and motioning toward him. "Obviously, ya do, or ya would'a brought me into the feds by now!"

Jesse glared at him. He glared back. Then, without another word, Jesse ducked into his tent, ending the conversation there.

 _He didn't have to be right,_  he told himself.  _You_ _could'a_ _had your money by now if_ _you'd'a_ _ignored those signatures._

He cut a cigar, placing it in his lip before pulling out his lighter. As he cupped the end to set it alight, he glanced at the small opening in his tent -- only to meet two large, luminous, orange eyes, a curious outback beast that refused to let him live.

He zipped up the tent, muttering insults. Outside, Junkrat stayed silent, only for a few precious moments.

"Ya don't gotta sleep out here, y'know," he said. "We only got two bedrooms in the trailer, but you could...I dunno...sleep on the floor? The sofa, maybe?"

"Go," McCree spat. "Get outta here."

The junker hesitated.

 _What for?_  Jesse had to wonder.  _How dense do ya gotta be?_

"Still think y'ought'a give it a chance."

That was it. Jesse darted forward and unzipped the tent, finally having had enough of the creep whose name he bore on his wrist. He shouldered his way out, seeing red as he stood up, ready to start put the junker in his place.

But Junkrat was gimping away, unevenly making his way back up the hill. He moved surprisingly fast for his lack of a leg, putting enough distance between himself and Jesse to dissuade him from pursuing.

Jesse balled his fists. The last time he was this angry, he was in Venice -- a day he wanted to regard as one of his best, but quickly devolved into one he wished would've never happened. Today was exactly the same -- his one chance at being well-off for the rest of his life, but here he was, throwing it all away over some insignificant marks on his skin.

He looked down at his wrist. The letters on it made his eyes burn. He stormed back into the tent, anger twisting into tears.


	2. Good-Hearted Villains

The morning sun brought a headache and some booze. Sleep had managed to evade him most of the night. That was fine; he had more than enough whiskey to last.

The ache in his chest never went away. It persisted, a nagging sickness, well into his intoxication. But Jesse didn't know what else to do, so he kept drinking -- until the hair of the dog became the whole beast all over again.

At least the headache stopped.

Sunlight breached the tent, slicing right into his brain. He rolled over and covered his eyes, groaning miserably.

"Holy shit."

Bile rose in his throat. Junkrat's voice was the most unwelcome thing in the world, something he hated more than anything. It beat around in his skull in a way that pissed him off beyond measure.

He was tugged out of the tent. He screwed his eyes shut, his back hitting the ground as Junkrat let him go.

"...I'm not that bad, am I?" the junker asked, obviously not directed towards McCree.

Someone -- Roadhog, most likely -- grunted nearby. "No."

"I don't get it, then. Why's he hate me? What'd I ever do to 'im?"

Roadhog was silent. Then, quietly, "Not who he was expecting."

Jesse didn't have to open his eyes to know Junkrat was making a dumb, perplexed face, acting as though what was said was some huge revelation. "What makes ya think that?"

A pause, so long Jesse thought Roadhog wasn't going to answer. "Would've just got pissed and left if it was about you," he finally said. "It's about someone else. He's hurt."

"Aw, ain't you full of shit!" Jesse slurred, tilting his hat down so it blocked the sun from his face. "What've you been through...b-big fella? Speakin' from experience?"

The two junkers were quiet. Then, Junkrat whispered, "What'd he say?"

Roadhog sighed. He grabbed Jesse by his shirt and hoisted him up on his shoulder, earning incomprehensible protests from the bounty hunter. He started for the trailer.

Jamie loped up beside him, his eyebrows raised. "What're ya doin'? You gonna go kill 'im?"

Roadhog shook his head. He slowly made his way up the hill, careful not to shake McCree around and cause motion sickness. Junkrat followed, eyeing the other junker.

"Move your hand up, mate. S'a bit close to his arse."

Silently, Roadhog put his hand higher up on the cowboy's back.

He could sense Jamie's nervousness. It crackled and fizzled right against his back, electric enough to transfer between them. He had a lot to worry about; Mako couldn't blame him for the anxiety.

He had a long road ahead of him. This man -- this drunken cowboy living in an era long past, sulking over whoever still owned his heart -- was going to be a challenge unlike any other. Worse than social rejection, worse than exile. Worse than robbing treasures all across the world.

Jamie was going to need a light touch. Coming from a man who lived for blowing up the next building, Roadhog thought it damn near impossible.

But maybe he'd surprise his bodyguard and the cowboy both. Who knew? Maybe he was a great romantic.

...Mako doubted it.

\------------

Jesse's molten glare bored into the lanky junker from his spot on the couch, finding all sorts of new reasons to despise him. The way he laughed, the way he talked, the way he got excited and bounced off the walls like a 13-year-old that had too much Mountain Dew. It was... _annoying_ , to say the least, and only made his throbbing skull hurt more.

"Why'd you bring me here?" Jesse asked. "I didn't ask you to help me sober up. You're the  _reason_  I'm drinkin'."

Junkrat shrugged. "Hog brought ya in. Ask him."

Roadhog shook his head, seated in a recliner to the left of the couch. "Knew you would wanna help him."

Junkrat narrowed his eyes at the big man. "Wasn't s'posed to throw me under the bus." He turned back to his trap, laying flat on the floor in front of him. A sadistic part of Jesse wished it would snap closed.

The cowboy glanced around the room, trying to find a working clock. A small TV sat on the wall in the left corner, more static than whatever documentary show was on. The model was ancient -- dating back to the 2050s, no doubt. It was an actual screen, not a holographic one; Jesse remembered his parents having a couple of them.

There was a singular stand in the dinky living room, and only a faded lamp sat on it. A fan whirred beside it. Two windows let light in from either side of the room, the sunbleached blinds pulled up to see the "beautiful" outback. Black-and-white birds flounced around the piles of scrap metal littering the backyard.

No clocks. Jesse glanced into the kitchen, which was separated from the living room by a high arch. Random junk sat around inside, piled on the table and the floor -- leftover car parts, glass sheets, pointy bits galore. McCree decided he'd never set foot in there, or eat anything that came out of it. Not that he intended to stay, of course.

"What time is it?" he growled finally, giving up on his search. His gritted teeth caused his head to seethe.

"Half past a monkey's ass," Junkrat muttered, snorting.

Jesse gave him a hard glare. Once upon a time, he'd said the same thing to Winston. Now, it wasn't funny whatsoever.

Junkrat looked back at him, having felt his intense gaze. Instantly, he winced. "Calm it, cobber. It's...eh, I'd say five."

"Perfect time to leave." Jesse stood up, making a beeline for the door. He whipped out his cell phone, tapping the contact on the hologram.

The phone rang. And rang. And rang again. Finally, a man picked up. "Yeah?"

"Be at the dock tomorrow evening," Jesse ordered, pushing out the door without another word to the junkers. "I'm gettin' outta this place."

"Oh, about that," the man said. "It's officially been taken over by junkers. Outcasts from the Omnium society, probably. They've made it their base. Think you can find another way back?"

Jesse stopped in his tracks. "What? What the hell do ya mean?"

"Look, we can't dock because the junkers will blow our ship to scrap. I'm sorry, McCree, but you're on your own." He hung up.

Jesse sighed harshly, pinching the bridge of his nose with metal fingers until it hurt. "This is unreal. Knew I shouldn't'a trusted those people...boat ride was way too cheap." He stared at the ground, just barely keeping his composure. "Just my luck! Exactly how things go for poor ol' Jesse fucking McCree!"

"So your name's Jesse, huh?"

McCree turned. "You get your ass back in that trailer before I knock that burnt-up head off your shoulders," he snarled, reaching for his gun.

Junkrat was unfazed. "On me own land? You got some guts." He approached, eyeing the device in McCree's hand. "Can I get a look at that? Never seen anything like it."

Jesse shook his head. He turned away and started for his tent, half expecting Junkrat to follow.

But the uneven footsteps never came. Instead, the door of the trailer shut, leaving Jesse to his devices. For some reason, it made him feel more alone than ever.

That is, until the black-and-white birds began swooping. He ran all the way to his tent, cursing as he went.


	3. This Silent Horizon

Halfway across the world, walking alongside his master on the streets of London, Genji Shimada watched a drunk man bumble along the sidewalk.

He was unremarkable among the common rabble. Dark hair, pale skin, a stained shirt. His face had gone unshaved for several days, leaving him with a five-o'clock shadow. He was totally normal...and yet he captured the cyborg's attention, leaving him lost in thought.

Jesse didn't get stumbling drunk very often. When he did, the memories they made together were some of the most vivid in Genji's mind. Most of them involved dragging the older man back to his bunk, but it was the conversations that truly mattered.

When Jesse was so inebriated he couldn't even remember his own name, Genji felt as though he could let his guard falter a bit. He let himself open up. It got addicting; he found himself pouring out his thoughts onto a half-asleep Jesse, slurring support and smiling sweetly.

Even with so much hatred swirling inside, Genji found it difficult to bottle up his emotions. He would never be like Hanzo.

"Genji," a gentle voice called.

He glanced back. Zenyatta floated beside him, watching him as he stared at the drunken man. Genji dipped his head.

"Master."

"Does something trouble you?" asked the omnic.

Genji shook his head. "I am simply...remembering."

Zenyatta nodded. "I hope it is of something positive."

Genji decided that, yes, it  _was_  of something positive. McCree was a good person. If only they had met him later in life -- maybe they truly could've been together.

The pair continued on, leaving the drunkard behind.

\------------

Jesse studied the signature on his wrist. Bold and proud, like a mark of ownership.

His temper flared. Perhaps he could learn to shoot with his left hand; maybe he didn't need the right. Maybe he could cut it off and leave it somewhere in the outback.

 _What am I_ _thinkin_ _'?_  Once he left Australia, he could get the signature covered up by a tattoo or something -- but he sure as hell couldn't  _cut it off_. Was he mad?

He shook his head, turning his attention to the problem at hand.

The dock was off-limits. Too junker-infested. Was there someone he could pay to fly him back to America? ...No, they would just swindle him and leave him for dead. The only way out was via ship or aircraft...so there had to be another dock somewhere. There couldn't be only one on the whole continent.

He took another swig of whiskey. Looking at his stock of food, he decided he'd be able to ration it out for about a week if he went hungry during the evening. Not ideal, but probably enough time to find someone to take him out of the country.

He weighed his options. He could go to Junkertown and try to get inside, or...

No. He wasn't going to crawl back to Junkrat for help. He was better than that.

Tomorrow he'd set off for Junkertown. He had his motorcycle, with more than enough charge to get him where he needed to go. He just hoped the Omnium's irradiated denizens were friendlier than everyone thought.

\------------

Breakfast consisted of whiskey, a little jerky, and some coffee. He loaded up his motorcycle with his belongings, pulling the straps tight, before getting on and easily tearing up the hill.

He glanced at the trailer as he passed, deflecting waves of heat already that morning.

 _Hasta la vista,_ he told the junkers inside,  _and good riddance._

Within seconds, the trailer was out of sight behind hills of orange dust, the black-and-white birds squawking as they flew above. Jesse set his sights ahead, seeing a massive, shimmering piece of metal in the distance. Heat distorted its silhouette, but it was unmistakable what it was.

He sped up, not stopping until the sign stood above his head.

His gaze flitted over it. The white paint had begun to crack and peel, artificial snow dusting the ground below. Beside the rolling door, two wanted posters stuck to a rusted wall. Jesse scowled at the crookedly smiling face.

_Accurately_ _ugly._

He scanned the area. No one was around the Omniun. No one was on top of the lookout. No matter where he looked, he could only find flies and clouds of dust.

He cleared his throat. "Uh, hello? Anybody there?"

Flies buzzing. Dust clouds blowing.

"Hellooo?" Jesse cupped his hands around his mouth. "Hey!"

Suddenly, an intercom crackled, making him jump. "Who're you?" a woman snarled. Her accent was thick, her voice venomous.

Jesse blinked. "Uh, Jesse McCree," he stuttered.

"Dunno who you are. You ain't even from here, are ya?"

"Well, no, but --"

"Off with ya, then. We don't like blow-ins around here." The intercom crackled again, disconnected.

"Wait!" Jesse darted underneath the megaphone. "I gotta get back home! I don't  _wanna_ be here! I'll pay!"

Flies buzzing, dust blowing.

Jesse took off his hat and threw it on the ground. "Goddammit! Goddamn you! Goddamn this place!" He kicked the hat, sending it a few feet away. "I never asked for this! I never did anything to  _deserve_  this!" He pulled a hand through sweat-slicked hair, hatred setting like concrete. "You'll see. There'll be hell to pay one of these days, and I'll be damned if I'm not the one collectin' it!"

The metal structure stood above him, impassive. It ignored him and his tantrum, wordlessly allowing him to scream at the flies and dust.

Jesse didn't know what to do. Everyone in this society was hostile, unwilling to help -- even for money. They left him with one other option.

And, by God, he would never forgive himself for it.

\------------

Steel rapped on steel. Jesse waited in silence, mulling over what he would say.

He didn't want to apologize, he decided. He wanted Junkrat and himself to be as distant as possible; no relationship would bud between them -- just an understanding. Once Jesse was out of the country, they could pretend they never even met.

The door opened. Roadhog didn't say hello.

"Er --" McCree's mind lurched to a stop. He hadn't been expecting the bodyguard, but now that he thought of it, it made sense. Lots of people probably wanted Junkrat dead. When available, it would only be precautionary to let Roadhog answer. Besides, it didn't matter which junker he asked, he presumed.

"You got a boat I can use."

Jesse was aware it wasn't a request. However, if he was ever going to get anywhere in such a cutthroat society, he was going to have to be bold.

Roadhog stared at him. "Yup," he said after a moment.

Jesse was shocked.  _Really? It was that easy?_  "C-could ya get it?" He couldn't disguise the hope in his voice.

Roadhog shook his head.

McCree's brows beetled, a scowl quickly putting its familiar lines on his face. "What's that s'posed to mean? You just said I could use it."

"Said you  _can_  use it. Not that you're allowed to."

Jesse scoffed. "Oh, sorry, Mr. Hog,  _may_  I use your boat? Didn't know grammar was so damn important to junkers."

Roadhog stared at him again. It began making him uncomfortable.

"...Well?" he tried again. "Could I use the boat?"

No answer.

It didn't take long for Jesse's anger to ebb, replaced with a cold dread that was impossible to swallow. He knew it was all just an intimidation tactic -- a trick to make him back down and crawl into whatever hole he came from -- but, dammit, it worked! He pulled at the collar of his serape, his jaw tightening.

"Apologize."

Jesse's gaze snapped upward, shocked. "Huh? Apologize?" He released his collar. "What for?"

Roadhog crossed his arms, but didn't answer.

"You're startin' to piss me off," Jesse growled. "You think this is funny, don't'cha? You're just as fucked-up as that one in there." He pointed over the massive junker's shoulder, indicating his charge. "This whole country's just a --"

"Apologize," Roadhog rumbled again, this time more insistent.

Jesse threw his hands up. "Why? What good's it gonna do? All y'all are gonna do is laugh about it and kick me out on my ass!"

Roadhog sighed, his patience running thin. "Not my boat. It's his." He motioned his head backwards. "Made it himself."

Jesse's fury froze in place. Of course -- why would Junkrat ever let him take the boat  _he made_  after everything that had been said?

Jesse felt idiotic for arguing; the result was inevitable.

He was going to have to make amends. Not like he wanted to -- but if he was ever going to get back to where he belonged, he was going to have to.

Roadhog stared at him for a little while longer, the mask's cold lenses burning into him. It wasn't often Jesse felt small, but, in that moment, it was as though he was the tiniest, most pitiful man in the world. Guilt tore him to shreds, his stubbornness forgotten, and he couldn't even see his tormentor's eyes.

Finally, after years, Roadhog moved, going back into the trailer without another word. A great pressure was lifted off Jesse's mind, but he still had a bad feeling in his gut.

Maybe he was too hard on the little weirdo...

Look, he didn't feel softly toward him. He never would. That didn't mean he couldn't show some human decency.

When he stepped inside, he couldn't find Junkrat anywhere. It was a small place; he could see either end of the trailer from his spot right inside the door. He looked up at Roadhog. "Where is he?"

Roadhog pointed to the floor. "Underground. Hatch's in his room."

Jesse nodded.  _That's probably where he builds his stuff,_ he deduced.  _Can't imagine him_ _fittin_ _' tires 'n' all that other shit up here._

Picking his way back to the parallel bedrooms, Jesse noticed there was a sort of... _order_  amongst the chaos inside the little trailer. Scrap metal sat at one end of the kitchen counter, while glass sheets sat on the other. Nuts went into one jar, while bolts were in the other. Screws were scattered on the table, but were loosely organized by length. Various tools sat in random places, but Jesse imagined, if you knew the place well enough, you could find what you needed easily.

He entered one of the rooms, making a guess at which was Junkrat's based on the painted smiley faces on the door. Inside, it was as cluttered as the kitchen, but with more domestic items.

Jesse took a second to study everything. The bed was just a mattress lain out on the floor, a ratty blanket strewn across its stained surface. There wasn't a pillow. The floor was -- well,  _used_  to be -- white carpet. A chest of drawers with a cracked mirror loomed adjacent to the mattress, while a desk sat alongside the opposite wall. A fan drooped lifelessly from the ceiling.

As he passed, Jesse looked at the chest of drawers. Little bottles of nail polish, mostly black, were placed on top of it, along with a hairbrush, a pile of clothes, and even some old eyeliner.

_Genji told me he used to like makeup, too._

He chased the thought away before it angered him. Kicking aside some more clothes and cables, he searched for the hatch door in the floor. He almost missed it; its outline blended with the rest of the floor, a barely-noticeable string handle sticking up from the filthy carpet. He tugged on it, revealing a black hole.

"Go away, Roadie," Jamie called, "I'm wallowing."

Jesse blinked. There was a direct chute downward, accessible by a ladder made of a patchwork of metal. He cleared his throat. "Er, actually, it's me. McCree."

His call was met by silence, causing him to swallow nervously. Junkrat wasn't the type to go silent often; someone didn't have to know him well to be aware of that.

"What're you doin' back here?"

His tone was unwelcoming, almost as deathly cold as the Junkertown woman's. It made Jesse's blood freeze.

"Uh -- I -- I wanted to say...er..."

_Spit it out._

"I'm --"

_If you're ever gonna get back where you belong, you're gonna have to swallow this pride._

"I -- I'm...I'm sorry. It wasn't right, what I said to you. You're...you're not that bad, I-I guess."

_That was pathetic._

Junkrat didn't say anything for awhile. Jesse didn't even hear him moving around.

_He's not convinced._

He tried again. "I'm glad you made an effort, y'know? Even after what I done. You're, uh, you got determination, I'll give ya that."

The TV sizzled with static, audible from the living room. Outside, insects chirped in the mid-morning heat. The awkwardness was thick enough to cut.

Finally, dual orange eyes appeared at the bottom of the hatch. "You pullin' me leg, mate?"

Jesse frowned. "Look, we got off on the wrong foot. I'm not an asshole, all right?"

Junkrat gave a thoughtful nod, holding his chin. "Right. Hey, tell me this -- was Hog right? About me not bein' the person you expected?"

"That's none of --" Jesse cut himself short, remembering why he was apologizing in the first place. He couldn't ruin it now. "Uh...I...don't wanna talk about it," he mumbled, averting his gaze.

Junkrat nodded again, humming. He latched onto the ladder and climbed up. When he was upright and facing McCree again, he leaned down and grabbed his serape in an iron fist.

"Don't think I don't see what you're doin', cowboy," he growled through grinning teeth, a rabid glint in his eyes.

Jesse held his hands up, having to restrain himself from throwing punches. "What're you talkin' about? I'm not playin' at anything!" Panic dripped down his spine.  _He_ _can't know, there's no way,_ he thought.  _T_ _hat_ _tub'a_ _lard out there_ _couldn't've_ _told him about our conversation... But what if he heard it? What if he's got a microphone right there at the door? Or a security camera? What if --_

Junkrat narrowed his eyes, putting his face right into Jesse's. "You ain't foolin' me. You know that old saying, 'you're puttin' the cart before the horse'? Well, you got the cart all the way down the road, and the horse ain't even been born yet!" He bunched his other fist into the cloth of Jesse's serape, holding fast.

"What the hell are you talkin' about?" Jesse couldn't keep his anger at bay any longer, pushing the scrawny junker away.

He held on, a mad dog clinging to a bone. "You're tryin' to get into me pants!" he cried, laughing. "But I won't be wooed so easily, cowboy casanova! You gotta do more than that to bed me!"

For a foggy moment, Jesse was confused. Then, he saw red. How entitled did this sleazy, ugly, filthy criminal think he was?

Jesse had met Talon agents with more couth!

He'd met gang bosses with less arrogance!

Junkrat was lucky he let go of the serape, because, if not, he would've been eating his own teeth. Jesse swung around and drove his fist into the nearest wall, leaving an unattractive, large gash.

Silence roared.

Thudding footsteps made their way down the hall, stopping as Roadhog opened the door. He looked at the two men inside. He didn't ask a thing, yet still got his answer. With a shake of his head, he left once more.

McCree took in a deep breath, flexing his metal fist to make sure it still worked. He turned to Junkrat. "I don't wanna be enemies with you, ya hear? But in order for us to get along, you gotta know your bounds."

Junkrat didn't respond for a moment, expression vacant. His eyes met Jesse's. "Why haven't you left yet?"

It was an antagonizing question. He wanted to ask why Jesse was still there, why he was in his house, what gave him the right to even talk to him. But he saved them both some time and asked one very loaded, very serious question, renouncing any clownish trait he'd shown before. It was devastating.

"I'm..."  _What're ya gonna do?_ he asked himself.  _Apologize again? What good is that? The damage has already been done._

_It's over. It's done -- you lost. You're gonna die out in that wasteland, and it's no one's fault but your own._

Suddenly, his eyes stung. He knew it was coming, but he couldn't make himself stop; the tears came too fast. Like the eyewall of a hurricane, he exploded, a swear erupting as a pitiful sob. Every man had his breaking point, and Jesse McCree had finally reached his.


	4. Nowhere Left for the Good To Go

Anger turned to confusion and confusion turned to panic, all in the time it took for Jesse to say that near-inaudible swear.

Jamison didn't know what to do. "H-hey, cowpoke, it's all right!" he exclaimed, unable to find something better to say. "I-I didn't wanna hurt your feelings!"

His hands hovered close to the other man's shoulders. It was in Jamie's nature to touch others, often to get his point across; he felt insincere without some small connection, just a pat on the shoulder or the arm...yet, now, he hesitated. Jesse was a whirlwind of indiscernible rage, lashing out at anything that got too close. Jamie learned that the hard way, and he wasn't too keen on retaking the lesson.

He put his hands at his sides, stiffly holding them there as he spoke. "Okay, ah, I -- I'm just gonna --"  _I don't know what I'm gonna do! I don't know anything_ _!_

He stared at Jesse. It was as if he hadn't even heard what he'd said.

Junkrat needed help. Seeing his opportunity, he bolted.

He ripped through the tiny trailer home, landing on top of Roadhog in his big, red recliner at the opposite end. "Roadie!" he yelled, grabbing onto his bodyguard's shoulder straps. "You gotta help! I-I --" he lowered his voice to a whisper, putting his face right up to the mask -- "I made 'im cry!"

Behind one of the dark lenses, Jamie saw Roadhog's eyebrow raise. At least the feeling of shock was mutual.

"What'd ya say?" asked the big man, gingerly pushing him to the side so he wasn't directly in his face.

Jamie stopped vibrating for a moment to recall what was said. He was so unnerved by Jesse's behavior, he couldn't even remember what happened that caused it!

"Uh..."

An invisible clock ticked.

"Hm."

A cheery tune, belonging to an ancient game show from long ago, started up.

"Err..."

Gears clicked and a bell chimed.

"Oh, yeah! I asked 'im why he's still here. Which...for some reason, must've tipped 'im off." Jamie held his chin. "I asked 'cause he hates me! Everything I do makes 'im tick! I just don't get why he came back! Ah, Hog!"

Roadhog rumbled. The pair sat there for a moment, watching the old, fuzzy documentary on TV. Penguins. Jamie always liked them. He wondered what they'd feel like.

Roadhog held something out. Jamie snatched it, disregarding what it was until it was in his hands, nearly crumpling in his shaky grip.

"Did some searching," Roadhog said. "Found this on his bike."

It was a photo. A  _paper_  photo.  _Tad anachronistic_ _,_  Jamie thought. The edges were ragged and dirty -- white once, but not anymore. Two people were in it; in the foreground, a young man that could only be McCree, proudly showing off his sparkly revolver. Beside him sat a woman who looked about his age -- all except for her snow-white hair.

Jamison glanced up at Roadhog. "Okay. What's this gotta do with anything?"

Roadhog sighed, but said nothing. Jamie asked again, but only got a similar reaction.

He stared at the picture again. Thought about the context.

"Oh! Crimeny," Jamie exclaimed, "he's straight!"

Roadhog blinked and grunted. "What else, Jamie?"

The gears started clanking again.

"Ah! Is that his missus?"

Roadhog shrugged. "Maybe."

Jamie stared at the woman in the photo. He had to admit, she  _was_ attractive -- but her eyes, with their deep, demonic red glint, gave him the creeps. Maybe McCree was into that?

"I'm, ah, a bit of a downgrade, ain't I?" Jamie giggled, but his own words -- the truth -- stung. If he had a lady like that, then ended up cosmically epoxied to some irradiated goon who stole for a living, he'd be a little peeved, too.

Jamie huffed and mumbled, "Maybe I oughta let 'im go back to her. I mean, nothin' says we  _gotta_  be together, right?"

Roadhog gave no response, but he certainly exuded an air of doubt. Jamie waved him away. "Bah, what'd you know?" He hopped off the arm of the chair and gimped to the opposite end of the trailer, opening his bedroom door with gusto.

He deflated as soon as he saw Jesse again, sniffling and wiping his face.

Nothing was said and no glances were exchanged for a solid thirty seconds. Then Jesse asked with a voice thick with rue, "What? Come to gawk 'n' laugh before kickin' me out? ...Don't blame ya. It's deserved."

A bad feeling twisted in Jamie's gut, something akin to responsibility and sympathy. He believed the word was "guilt," but it was such a foreign concept, he couldn't be sure.

He shifted, tapping his peg on the floor. "No, I, er... _Roadhog_  did some snootin' and, uh, he dredged this up." He inched closer to the cowboy and held out the photograph, letting him take it. "I figured, y'know, that...she was your lady. And you missed her. And that's why you're so, uh... _upset_." Jamie's eyes followed anything and everything to keep from looking at McCree.

McCree stared at the picture for a moment. Then, he put on a crooked smile.

Jamie's eyes widened. Speaking so quickly that the words ran together, he added, "I won't hold any hard feelin's against ya if ya go back to her! I-I can see why!

Jesse glanced up at him. With a shake of his head, he pocketed the picture and laughed. Actually laughed!

"You got quite the imagination, Fawkes." He stood up, giving his nose a final wipe with the back of a steel hand. He shared a look with Jamie for a few seconds, some abstruse sadness in his eyes, before touching the brim of his hat in a farewell. With not a word more, he walked out.

"Hey -- hey! Wait! Are ya -- are ya actually takin' me up on the offer?" Junkrat followed after him, intercepting him right outside the bedroom door.

Jesse's brow furrowed in an all too familiar anger, but this time, his tone only expressed bewilderment. "No, I'm, uh, I'm leavin'. That's...what ya wanted, right?"

Jamie smiled nervously, touching the back of his neck. "N-not really, if I'm bein' honest. But I understand if ya do. If she's what makes ya happy, I say go for it --"

Jesse snorted. "Ashe? Makin' me happy? Those two things don't go together. Look, Fawkes...," Jesse took out a box of cigars, cutting off the cap of one, "I've...I've had the worst brought out in me. I shouldn't'a treated ya the way I did -- I don't even know ya, and I acted like you was -- like you're my worst enemy over somethin' neither of us can control." He produced a match, lifted his foot, and struck it on the underside of his boot. He lit the cigar as he spoke. "So...I don't want you feelin' bad about leavin' me out there. I've...come to terms with it. Trust me, I'll find a way off this island. One way or another." He smiled enigmatically. At that, he patted the taller junker's shoulder, only to reel back at the static shock.

"Shit," he said in unison with Jamie's, "Ooh!"

They stared at each other. Jamie piped up first. "Look, no hard feelings, J-- cowpoke. I'm not  _forcin_ _'_  ya out. I just...think ya shouldn't have to abandon your sheila over these things." He lifted his arm and pointed to his wrist, at the black, flowing letters naming someone he'd never get to know.

Jesse smirked, and, if Jamie wasn't mistaken, flushed, even. "Ah, ya silly dumbass. It ain't about my girlfriend, it's about...my boyfriend. Well, ex-boyfriend. Sorta. Maybe. Kind of...a long story." He shrugged as though he hadn't just made the biggest reveal of the 21st century.

" _That's a man_?" Jamie hollered, pointing to the picture in Jesse's pants pocket.

Jesse snorted, struggling to stifle a laugh. "No! She ain't even in this equation!"

"What? Then why do ya got her picture?"

"She had it on that bike I stole from her, all right? Wasn't my choice!"

Jamie narrowed his eyes. "Well, I don't know what you Yanks do to seduce each other, but ya best not try 'n' steal that bike out there!" He pointed out the nearest window. "That's our only mode of transportation!"

Jesse rolled his eyes, but based on his sly, sideways smirk, Jamie would say he was amused. Unable to curb the question nor his enthusiasm, the junker went on to ask, "So, are ya stayin'?"

Jesse sighed, blowing out a thick cloud of smoke that stung the eyes. "Well...if you'll have me, I s'pose. But we gotta make sure one thing's clear." Jesse took out the cigar and pointed at Jamison with it, the burning foot right up under his nose. "I'm...I'm not lookin' for romance, all right? Or random touchin'. Or invasion of personal space. Okay?"

"Right. Seems like a long list of orders, though." Jamie grinned lightheartedly. "Ya really think a hardened criminal like me could follow all that?"

Jesse raised his eyebrows. "I should hope so. Else we might have some problems." Despite his smile, Jamie picked up on the threat with ease, seeing a dangerous glint in the other man's gaze as he placed his cigar back between his lips. Something about the whole sequence was rather exciting -- in more ways than one.

Jamie turned on his heel, face burning. "I'm gonna go down in the workshop for a bit," he mumbled, clasping his hands together. "Go ahead and make yourself at home, cowpoke. And...to be frank, I'm glad ya stayed." He added the last part so quietly, he was sure Jesse hadn't heard it.

But he had. And he thought it was...sweet. Somewhat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> since i keep forgetting to plug my tumblr: btwrites-overwatch(.)tumblr(.)com. i'm most active there!


	5. Tick Away

_My_ _God, how_ _the tables have turned._

Jesse McCree sat in the junkers' home, peacefully puffing a cigar and staring at the static snowing on the television. Some sort of smell was coming from the kitchen, the same one he swore he would never eat from.

"So, er, what's he cookin'?" the gunslinger asked.  _Can't_ _be_ _that_ _good,_ he forced himself not to add.

Jamison's head popped up over the TV, hands still occupied by circuits. He'd been working to fix the old thing for 30 minutes, and hadn't so much as changed the pattern of the static. "Ah, who knows? Whatever it is, it's bound to be good. Hog can cook anything." He disappeared back behind the paper-thin screen.

Jesse had his doubts, yet verbally agreed to avoid offense.

He settled back into the cushions, smoking and thinking. Maybe there was a way to clear out the junkers infesting the docks. He might be capable of doing it alone...but, then again, junkers were an unfamiliar culture. It was hard to tell all the unexpected ways they could find him offensive. It was too dangerous for one man, especially a foreigner -- even one as charismatic as himself.

But that dock was the quickest way home. He had to take a risk.

"Hey, Fawkes," McCree began, blinking back into the living room, "think ya could help me with somethin'?"

Junkrat didn't appear over the screen. "Depends on...ah, shit... Depends what it is, cowpoke."

Jesse leaned forward on the couch, resting his elbows on his knees and taking his cigar between his fingers. "When you two get a chance...think ya could help me free up the docks? The ones way up north?"

"The ones your mates can't get to?"

"Yeah."

A pause. "Hm. What's the problem?" His voice was different. Flatter. Jesse sensed he should choose his next words carefully. 

"Just some other junkers. Shouldn't be too difficult with your, ah...," he cleared his throat, "...experience."

Jamison laughed aloud, finally looking up over the screen. With a short jerk of his unseen hands, the static broke up just enough to see jellyfish idling in a deep, cerulean sea. An Australian narrator identified the species --  _Chironex_ _fleckeri_ , the sea wasp.

"What'd'ya mean? Attack 'em?" Junkrat exclaimed, standing up to his full height. "We don't just  _attack_  other exiles! Who the hell are we gonna trade with? The dingoes?"

Jesse bit the inside of his cheek, about to say no, that wasn't what he wanted to do at all, but Junkrat cut him off.

"Ah, pardon, it's so hard to remember you're not from here! Okay, so," he put up his hands, setting up an imaginary stage, "Junkertown is ruled by the Queen, right? Got her fancy mech battles she bases everything on, the materialistic witch -- ya don't follow her rules, ya question  _anything_  she does -- you're gone!" He motioned his left hand kicking the rear of his right, making it fly far away. "So you're out on your own. You ain't apart of her society no more. Well, not to worry, cobber! Other people have been exiled too. And they got all sorts of talents -- soap-makin', clothes-makin' -- and in my case, weapon-makin'!" He mimed the shooting of an assault rifle, mimicking the sounds to go with it.

Jesse blinked.

Their gazes met. Jamison stopped, eyes wide, before turning pink and giggling. "Aha, uh, anywho...ahem. I make weapons other exiles want, they give me whatever wares they got that I could use. Food, water, materials -- we got our own society out here, a billion times better than the Queen's! Who needs her? Right, Hog?"

From the kitchen, Roadhog rumbled an agreement.

"So basically," Junkrat continued, turning his attention back to Jesse, "we don't cause trouble out here. We all help each other. We ain't friends, by any means -- trust me, they've let me know -- but we know the special symbiotic relationship we got. That's why I can't help ya 'clear out' other exiles." He smiled. "Good, simple system, yeah?"

Jesse wanted to snap at him, to scold him for not letting him speak, but he recognized the valuable information he had been given. "Okay, what if I didn't mean to be aggressive?" he asked, redirecting the conversation. "Couldn't they just leave the docks? Long enough for me to leave? Or maybe they could just, I dunno,  _ignore the ship_?"

There was a moment of hesitation. Jesse knew why -- the damn boy was coming up with any excuse to get him to stay, anything to force him to stay longer. It angered him, but he held his composure.

"That's...a big request, cowpoke," Jamison replied. "Tellin' others what to do...that's a big faux pas out here. They'll think you're tryin' to set up another government -- that, or they'll laugh at ya. Maybe even leave ya with a scar to remind ya of your place as an equal, not a superior." He snickered up until he saw the frustration growing on Jesse's face.

"What if they just let the ship stop so I can get aboard?"

"Ships're our, ah, main source of materials, mate. Askin' someone not to attack one is like askin' 'em to go hungry for a week." Jamison gave a thin-lipped smile, almost daring Jesse to try again.

They stared at each other for awhile, Jamie smiling smugly and McCree scowling like an old dog. Eventually, the junker said, "If ya keep makin' that face, it'll stick that way."

Jesse rolled his eyes, forcing himself to bite back a scalding remark. "Okay, fine, what if --" he began, but before he could finish, Roadhog appeared in the archway, wearing a faded apron.

"Food."

He went back to the kitchen. Jamie went hobbling after him, mouth running faster than even the most genetically enhanced Olympians.

He left behind a smoldering Jesse with a cigar nub, burning just as hotly. Without giving it much thought, the gunslinger quashed the nub of his cigar on the couch cushion. Then he stood, glancing at the sea wasp on television. He sneered at it and left the room.

Roadhog had laid out a rather extravagant meal for only three people, but the majority was produce. Stuffed peppers, berry platters, seasoned radishes -- all somewhat small and mutated, but apparently still edible.

Just as before, Jesse had his doubts. This time, he was more inclined to voice his opinion. "Yeah, sure, this's great and all, but don't you all got any  _protein_? Somethin' ya can actually run on?"

Jamie stopped shoving a handful of blueberries in his mouth long enough to answer. "Aw, yeah, o'course. Got your pick of beans or nuts -- oh, even got some cheese! When'd we get that, Hog?"

Jesse shook his head. "No, I meant --"

Jamie gave a vehement nod, just now understanding what he was saying. "Oh, yeah, you're American. Can't live without your red meat." He giggled at his own joke. "Sorry, cobber, we don't eat that. Or any meat, really. But we got plenty of other stuff ya'd like, I'm sure!"

Jesse was unconvinced and less than pleased, but he sat with them anyway. His seat, a stack of old tires, had been improvised by Roadhog, placed at the middle of the table. Not as though the junkers' chairs were anything to be envious of; Junkrat sat on an old rolling stool while Roadhog squeezed into a plastic lawn chair. Jesse was almost convinced he had the most comfortable seat in the house, but right as the thought passed, his rear sunk down into the hole in the middle.

Dinner passed quickly. The junkers devoured most of their meal within ten ravenous minutes, leaving behind empty plates and drained beer cans. Jamie's big "drinking cup" even made an appearance, the bucket holding almost half a gallon of alcohol. Jesse was jealous.

Once dinner was over, Jesse was back to his amicability, yet he still didn't feel quite like himself. Perhaps what he needed was a decent wash, something to give him a sense of normalcy. He'd been rolling around in the outback for a week, tossed around by a storm of emotions and whiskey, living on the sand. He was filthy.

He cleared his throat, drawing attention to himself. "Hey, uh, y'all got a shower? I could really use one. Sure ya could tell." He let loose a halfhearted snort, quirking his lips just slightly.

Jamie giggled, gathering up plates. "No comment. But, yeah, 'course we got a shower. It's back behind the pile. But don't stay in there too long, cowpoke! We only got so much water." He dumped the plates into the sink with a raucous clatter. "Oh, and don't forget to wash your clothes! We got a washboard and tub out there, too. Real old-school, but it works."

Jesse nodded once, mumbling thanks. He was quick to make himself scarce, desperate to wash away the godawful week he'd had.

Thus, a breezy shack in the backyard became his momentary home as well as a solace. The boards let in the night's chill, the water was lukewarm, and the soap smelled strange, but it made Jesse feel more sane than he had in days. He could almost imagine himself in a one-star motel near Albuquerque, living under someone else's name and waiting for something better.

But was this truly the "better" he was hoping for? Had he wasted nearly a decade waiting on orange dust and buzzing flies, on cigar-scarred couches and jellyfish documentaries? Was this the future he wanted so desperately, way back when he and his best friend revived that gang all those years ago?

He rubbed at the black marks on his wrist, mind empty, crowded with regrets and gondolas and lost opportunities. He thought the shower would help him -- and at first, it did. But nothing good ever lasted for Jesse McCree. Happiness was always fleeting, and whose fault was it but his own?

"Cowpoke! You're usin' up all our water! Don't make me send Hog after ya!"

For once, Jesse was glad to hear Jamison's heckling voice. He glanced down at his wrist, studying the blocky name that cuffed it. He never saw Jamie staring at the signature on  _his_  skin, sulking and pouting over something that was never supposed to be. He never even mentioned the marks.

Perhaps Jesse needed to stop dwelling in the past. Perhaps he needed to stop fretting over a fate he couldn't change. Perhaps he should just live day by day, water droplet by water droplet, just like the man whose name was on his skin, who was still screaming at him to stop wasting water.

He shut off the tap. Happiness might always be running away from him, but he'd find a way to catch up to it -- even if it meant letting go of the "better" he'd been waiting for.


End file.
